


Happy Birthday, Harry

by duplicity



Series: The Adventures of Harry and Mr. Tom [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Angst and Feels, Canonical Child Abuse, Child Harry Potter, Demon Voldemort, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mentor Voldemort (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:01:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25208872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duplicity/pseuds/duplicity
Summary: Harry's seventh birthday will be unlike any other birthday he's ever had before, not in the least because his best friend is a demon lord named Voldemort.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Series: The Adventures of Harry and Mr. Tom [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785181
Comments: 94
Kudos: 577





	1. A Birthday Wish

**Author's Note:**

> please note that this installment of the series contains more explicit child abuse than the previous parts. nothing heavy, but please be aware of the added tag!
> 
> thank you to everyone who helped me along while i wrote this out twice lol

The weeks and days leading up to Harry Potter's seventh birthday were unlike any summer Harry had ever experienced before.

Birthdays were special,  _ important. _ This Harry knew to be true, for Dudley celebrated every year without fail, throwing a big party with many of their classmates in attendance. Harry looked forward to that particular day if only because it afforded him a small portion of birthday cake.

Harry's birthday, of course, was worthy of no such party. This was a fact Harry had long since accepted, knowing that to the Dursleys and to his classmates at school, he would always be a freak. His inability to be  _ normal _ was to blame for it all.

Harry was not normal. Strange things sometimes happened to him. Things he could not explain no matter how hard he tried.

However, it was a special unexplainable thing that had led to the best event of Harry's life so far:

Meeting his first and bestest friend, Mr. Tom.

Now that Harry had a best friend, a wonderful friend, he also had some new ideas as to what was going on with the things he could not explain about himself.

Mr. Tom had magic powers and could do funny things. So maybe Harry wasn't strange after all. Maybe he had simply been around the wrong people this entire time.

From the stories Mr. Tom told to him, Harry gathered that there were many other people who could do strange, magical things. And even though those other people existed, Mr. Tom had chosen  _ Harry _ to be his friend, a fact that always made Harry feel warm all over.

Harry had never found friends in the neighbourhood or at school, but here was someone who wanted to be his friend, who could do weird things like him, only  _ better. _

So what Harry hoped for, even daydreamed about, was that  _ he _ could be magic, too. He could be magic like Mr. Tom, and then he would finally fit in.

If Harry could have magic, if he could make sandwiches from thin air and heal his bruises with a wave of his hand, then Mr. Tom wouldn't need to worry so much because Harry would be able to take care of himself.

This happy thought fueled Harry through his daily chores. Finally, here was a hope that he could finally belong somewhere, even if that somewhere was with Mr. Tom and his strange, funny friends in the odd place where they lived together.

That hope, accompanied by the reminder that this year's birthday would be different, made Harry's heart feel full.

This year Harry had someone who not only wanted to celebrate with him, but would also be getting him a gift.

Just a week ago, Harry had shyly informed his friend of the upcoming date. It had taken a bit of working up for him to get the words out, but Harry had succeeded in the end. 

Mr. Tom had proceeded to provide many reassurances that his busy schedule would be kept clear that day. Only, Harry hadn't needed those reassurances. He already knew that Mr. Tom cared about him. Mr. Tom was his friend, and this was what friends did for each other—they had birthday parties together.

It was strange for Harry to feel so sure about this. All his life, Harry had thought he was—and would always be—alone. But now he was not. Now he had a friend, someone who made him feel safe. Someone who he trusted to tell him the truth.

On his birthday, Harry would call Mr. Tom, and Mr. Tom would show up.

That was what was going to happen, and Harry believed in this more than anything. He knew his seventh birthday would be the best birthday he'd ever had.

* * *

On the morning of July 31st, Harry woke up in an excellent mood.

Dudley had not bothered him in weeks, and so Harry had had free-reign of the neighbourhood and the warm summer weather. Harry had never been more excited to escape the dullness of Privet Drive in favour of the outside world.

Usually Harry would go to the park. It was his favourite spot because of the swings, and because of the new memories he had of his friends.

_ Friends! _

It still surprised Harry that he was able to claim more than one friend. When Mr. Tom came to visit, he would bring Bell with him, and Harry now considered the little red dragon to be just as much of a friend as a human friend.

Some days Mr. Tom would be too busy to stay and play. On those days, he would cast a magic spell over the playground so no one could see Bell and Harry playing together. The magic tickled, but after so many visits, Harry was used to it.

Today, however, was his  _ birthday, _ and so Harry was expecting a full day of fun with both of his friends.

A loud shout of "Get up, boy!" startled Harry out of his pleasant thoughts and into a fully-upright position. The voice was Uncle Vernon's.

That his wake up call was from Uncle Vernon and not Aunt Petunia sent an uncomfortable feeling into Harry's stomach. Requests from his uncle never led to anything good.

Harry braced himself for the violent knock of a fist on his cupboard door, but there was no knock. Instead the door squealed loudly as it was wrenched open, revealing the pinched face of Petunia Dursley.

"Get up!" she hissed, gesturing sharply with her hand. Her eyes trailed around the contents of Harry's cupboard, neck craning, as it normally did when she was observing the comings and goings of their neighbours.

"We have guests arriving today," she added, when Harry made no move to rise to his feet. "You will help me prepare the meal before they arrive."

Harry felt his stomach drop into nothingness. "No!" he said, the shock of her words overwhelming him more than anything else. He couldn't stay in today of all days, not when Mr. Tom and Bell were waiting for him!

Aunt Petunia's face reflected some of Harry's shock back at him. "No?" she repeated, flustered. "No? We feed you and clothe you and house you, and you  _ dare—" _

Harry could not focus on the rest of her angry words, he was so upset, so confused by this sudden turn of events. He should have known better than to assume he would be allowed out of the house on his birthday. He had taken for granted the freedom of the past few weeks, and now he was paying for it.

Aunt Petunia seized him by the wrist and pulled him out of the cupboard. Harry stumbled along, too dizzy to refuse or pull away. He could only hope that once he was done helping, he would be kicked out of the house for the rest of the day.

The entire morning passed in a haze. Harry did as he was told, working as hard as he could to follow his aunt's instructions. If he listened, if he was good, then perhaps she could be persuaded to let him leave.

Once lunch was prepared, Harry carried platters of food to the backyard. Uncle Vernon had purchased a lovely outdoor table last month, and they would now be putting it to good use. Harry arranged the napkins and utensils in the way that Aunt Petunia preferred, checking all his work twice before he went back inside.

"Take this," said Aunt Petunia upon seeing him, shoving a sandwich wrap in his direction. "And go back to your room."

Harry could not find it in himself to be disappointed. This birthday, compared to all his previous birthdays, was one of the better ones. He was getting food, and he would be left alone all day while the Dursleys tended to their guests.

"Can I go outside, please?" Harry asked, a final attempt to see his hopes come true. "It's my birthday," he added, voice meek. He didn't think this would sway her, but if there was a chance that it could, then he had to try.

Aunt Petunia stared down the end of her pointed nose, mouth frowning, her hands settled on either side of her hips. "It won't do for you to be seen  _ wandering about _ while normal people are going about their important business," she said to him. "You should be grateful for what we give you after your little—your little  _ stunt _ this morning! Don't think I haven't forgotten that!"

Harry winced, shrinking down. He should have been thinking harder this morning. He had messed up, had ruined his chances of having his first proper birthday.

And so, with a heavy heart, Harry resigned himself to spending his birthday in the cupboard.

But it wasn't so bad, Harry told himself. Because as soon as he  _ was _ allowed out again, then he would be able to call his friends.

Mr. Tom wouldn't be mad about the missed call, either. They would still be friends, just like they would still be friends even if Harry went more than a few days without calling.

This reminder helped Harry feel slightly better about what had happened, but it wasn't enough to get rid of the bad feelings from realizing he had messed up this morning. He should not have said 'no' to Aunt Petunia.

"Okay," Harry mumbled. "Can I eat this and use the bathroom first?"

Aunt Petunia stared at him again, for less time than before, then nodded stiffly.

Harry quickly ate through the chicken wrap he'd been given, then rushed to the bathroom before the Dursley's fancy guests were due to arrive. It could be hours before he would be able to use the bathroom again.

Bladder relieved and hands cleaned, Harry ran back to the hallway, where Aunt Petunia was waiting for him.

"This is for you," she snapped. In her hands was a bottle of water. "Now get yourself out of my sight."

Harry took the bottle and followed her instruction, stepping through the door that led under the stairs. Aunt Petunia shut the door behind him with a thump, then closed the metal slats with a further clinking sound.

Now alone in his cupboard, Harry took a moment to think about his situation.

Outside the house, the summer weather was very hot and humid. But here under the stairs, the air was cooler. Harry had his bottle of water and an unknown amount of time to himself while the Dursleys entertained their special visitors.

It could have been worse, Harry told himself. For some reason, this thought did little to banish his sadness.

Not for the first time, Harry imagined calling Mr. Tom here to Privet Drive. The Dursleys would be outside having lunch, leaving the entire house empty. It would be so easy for Harry to don his ring and make a wish.

Almost like a birthday wish, but not exactly. Many of Harry's past birthday wishes involved dreams of a tall, kind stranger coming to take him away.

Harry had spent less time on that daydream lately, mostly thanks to Mr. Tom and Bell. But when Harry did have a moment to spare for that imaginary scenario, it was Mr. Tom's face he saw, not a stranger's.

The imaginary Harry who lived with the imaginary Mr. Tom was the happiest boy on earth. Harry didn't dare ask about where Mr. Tom lived, but he thought it might be a large, fancy house—the kind that Aunt Petunia often talked about in her glossy magazines.

There was a secret thought that Harry kept quiet in the back of his head. A special thought that, if it grew too loud, might be scared away. And so Harry only let this thought out when he felt safe, when he was alone and missing his best friend more than anything in the world.

The thought was this:

Someday, if Harry was a good enough friend, Mr. Tom would be willing to take a chance on him and take him away from the Dursleys.

Harry pulled away from the door and flopped backwards onto his bed. The funny feeling of before was back in his stomach.

He was a good friend, wasn't he? Mr. Tom smiled at him a lot and laughed at his jokes.

Harry's hand came up to touch at his ring, as was his habit to do. The ribbon looped around his neck was all tangled up. Harry ran his fingers over the ribbon and began to work at undoing the mess.

What Harry really wanted, more than anything he had ever wanted before, was to have Mr. Tom here for his birthday.

But Harry couldn't do that. He couldn't. What if his aunt and uncle convinced Mr. Tom that he wasn't worth it? What if Harry ruined his friendship just like he'd ruined his own birthday by not keeping his mouth shut this morning?

While Harry was sure that Mr. Tom wasn't sticking around just to be nice, that did not mean Mr. Tom's mind could not be changed. They were good friends now, but maybe that wouldn't last.

However, this doubt did not stop Harry from imagining nice things happening.

It took a moment for Harry to think up the proper idea, mostly because he was fairly sure Mr. Tom would not fit inside of his tiny cupboard if called right now, but eventually Harry settled on watching, in his mind, as imaginary Mr. Tom knocked on the Dursley's front door.

Mr. Tom would be dressed fancy, in a nicer suit than Uncle Vernon had ever worn, and he would smile with white teeth that could also be sharper and pointier like fangs.

Harry would creep out of his cupboard, full of surprise at seeing his friend.

Mr. Tom would greet Harry by name, would hold out a hand for Harry to take, and Uncle Vernon would splutter and turn red the way he did when someone told him he was wrong.

And then Mr. Tom would announce that he would be taking Harry to live with him.

Harry played with that idea in his head for a long time, dreaming up the nice big house from Aunt Petunia's magazines.

There would be a huge backyard with lots of plants and trees for him and Bell to play tag in. Maybe even a treehouse! Dudley was always asking for one of those, and Harry would love to have something that Dudley did not.

Mr. Tom would use his magic to make them things like food, and he would offer to teach Harry how to do magic, too. Harry would be  _ really good _ at magic. So good that Mr. Tom would be proud of him, would never regret letting Harry into his home. Harry would never be hungry or thirsty or sad, and they would be best friends forever.

The sound of the doorbell rang loudly, followed by the further sounds of people talking in the entrance hall. The sudden noise of the door scared Harry out of his nice dream. With the arrival of the Dursleys' visitors came the reminder that his amazing dream was only that—a dream.

Harry rolled onto his side, away from the cupboard door. He curled his body up, then wrapped his hand around Mr. Tom's ring.

This ring was a reminder, too. This ring gave Harry hope that someday his dreams could come true.

Even if Harry had to be inside all day, he could keep himself busy with his happy thoughts. He would see Mr. Tom again soon, as promised, because friends never lied to each other.

Today would not be the best birthday ever, but it certainly would not be the worst.

* * *

By the time the Dursley's guests were gone, Harry was feeling weirdly sleepy. The important lunch had stretched well into the afternoon, followed by a further invitation to tea time. Which, thankfully, Harry had not been invited to help prepare, maybe because Aunt Petunia wanted him kept out of sight.

Supper was a different story. Harry got to stretch his legs out for a few precious seconds before Aunt Petunia was dragging him to the kitchen to help peel potatoes.

Harry stifled yawn after yawn while he worked, hoping to get it all done quickly so he could go back to his cupboard and his nice dreams.

Unfortunately, Harry's yawning was enough to catch Aunt Petunia's attention. Harry was scolded for being lazy, but even the scolding was not enough to convince his mouth to stop it.

Perhaps being locked up all day after ages of running around had done something funny to him. Harry tried to keep his yawns to himself, or else only doing so when his aunt wasn’t looking.

Once supper was finished and the dishes were put away, Harry was finally allowed to escape for the night after a quick meal.

The hour was late, as the Dursley's guests had delayed dinner well past its typical time. Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, and Dudley had all gone upstairs to prepare for bed and spend time in their rooms. Soon the house would be quiet.

Harry stopped one last yawn from escaping his mouth as he fell onto his bed for the second time that day, his hand reaching for his ring. After all the touching he'd done to it, the ring was warm. Harry slipped it onto his thumb, where it fit the best, and rolled the shiny metal around and around. The feel of it in his hand made him feel safe.

Tucking his blanket over his legs, Harry shifted into a more comfortable position. The thought of going to sleep tonight was enough to remind him that he'd spent his birthday alone. Harry gazed up at the slats in his cupboard door. There was very little light coming through, but if he pressed his face up against the metal, he could just make out the moonlight that came in through the frosted glass window next to the front door.

_ Moonlight, _ thought Harry.  _ From the moon. _

The sneaky idea of before was back. Harry had tried to squash it down, but it was very stubborn and refused to go away. The idea was that maybe he could call Mr. Tom  _ right now. _

Harry sat up in his bed, the better to see the imagined moonlight coming into his cupboard. It was night time now, Harry reasoned. So Mr. Tom would not be at work. He would be at home, maybe with Bell, and the two of them would be getting ready to sleep.

Mr. Tom would not be angry if Harry called, would he? He would be happy and relieved to know that Harry was safe and alright.

Harry knew that Mr. Tom worried about him a lot. More than he ought to be worrying.

What  _ Harry _ worried about was that Mr. Tom would be distracted from his work because he thought Harry was in trouble.

Every time they met, Mr. Tom would always ask if Dudley had been bothering him again. And when Harry said no, Mr. Tom would say he was glad to hear that.

Harry didn't want to worry his friend. He didn't want to distract Mr. Tom from his job.

But Harry also did not want Mr. Tom anywhere near the Dursleys.

Still, Harry wished that Mr. Tom was here. He wished that they could have spent his birthday together.

Somewhere in the house, the clock chimed. It was a new hour, now.

What hour exactly, Harry was not so sure, because his day had been long and confusing. But it was late enough that Harry remembered there was one thing he had almost forgotten to do.

"Happy birthday," Harry mumbled to himself.

Then he listened to the silence of the house that offered no response. Idly, Harry wondered what it would be like to hear Mr. Tom say 'happy birthday' aloud.

Harry's eyelids were getting droopy. The ring in his hand was heavier than normal as he rubbed the fingers of his other hand against the smooth metal. Yawning again, Harry lay back down and let his eyes shut, holding his ring close to his chest, imagining the funny hum that happened whenever Mr. Tom was being called.

The hum would grow louder and louder, the ring warm as ever on Harry's finger, and then it would start to glow like a flashlight. Or maybe like a star.

The glow would get brighter, bright light, and then—

_ Light. _ Harry's closed eyelids fluttered a bit, then flew wide open.

Light?

Wide awake, Harry stared at his ring. It was both humming and glowing, loud and bright,  _ calling, _ and there was no way for Harry to stop it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this has not been fully written yet; therefore, expect a longer delay than usual between chapters. thank you for reading!


	2. A Birthday Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's birthday wish comes true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY HARRY!

Many, many hours earlier, in the circle of Hell overseen by Lord Voldemort, July 30th had passed over to July 31st.

Voldemort did not have an _office,_ per se—Hell was not a corporation, and its workers did not toil away within cubicles. Instead, Voldemort possessed what could be considered an office but was more akin to a large private study.

High ceiling spotted with hanging lights, half a dozen tall bookshelves laid out along the back wall, and elegant wooden panelling spread over the adjacent walls. Voldemort's intent was for a spacious, relaxing environment—the luxury of one's own private space in a realm where there was little that one could hide from.

Aside from the size of the room, there was a minimal amount of furniture. To the left side was the main desk where he worked, its surface clear of clutter and rarely used now that he spent less time drawing up contracts. Across from the desk and closer to the bookshelves, lay a comfortable leather armchair sat beside a small coffee table.

Previously, all that had existed upon this table was a lamp used to provide reading light. Now, however, a silent clock sat there, its second hand sliding quietly around at a measured pace.

To prepare for this day, the _birthday_ that Harry had so shyly informed him of, Voldemort had emptied his schedule in advance, blocking off a period of three days in which he was not to be pestered with inane squabbles and concerns.

That he had requested three days was not a mistake, and was, in fact, his own estimate of his servants' abilities to judge time accurately.

Voldemort eyed the clock. The time was set to match that of his human, of Harry. The purpose was to maintain a sense of the passage of time, and to determine whether the boy's calls were appropriate for the time frame in which they were being made.

If Harry was to encounter trouble at any time, day or night, his first call would be to Lord Voldemort.

Hence, the clock.

The clock, which made no sound audible to human ears, had never been moved from its perch on the coffee table. But even from a distance, the movement of clock's inner workings were _very_ audible to Voldemort's enhanced senses.

It was entirely possible for him to muffle or silence the noise. He simply had yet to decide to do so.

Voldemort was beginning to understand why humans hated alarm clocks so. If even the most silent of clocks was driving him to distraction, then any louder device would surely be much worse.

It was then that a tiny portion of the air burst into flames just off to his right.

Voldemort paid no mind to this, as he had grown accustomed to the comings and goings of the dragon Belligerent in his private space. He had warned the troublesome creature that he would not rescue it from any misfortunes it encountered down here, yet he found himself devoting an excessive amount of attention to it anyways.

This was, of course, because Harry had entrusted a duty of care to Voldemort. Harry would be sad if his pet was injured.

Belligerent circled the room once, twice, then settled on the top of the clock, clawed feet perched over the rim of the clock face. Its tiny wings flapped in a manner reminiscent of a peacock ruffling its feathers before it settled into a casual position.

The dragon's eyes, a glowing yellow, stared at him from across the room. Then it snorted, a baby hiccup for a creature so small, causing a few sparks to leap from its mouth.

"You'll set the clock on fire," Voldemort said to it.

Belligerent hiccuped again in response, then conceded the point, spreading its wings once more and leaping away from the clock.

It was quarter past ten in the morning. Harry tended to call sooner than that. The boy was an early riser and was always prompt with his calls.

But today was Harry's birthday. Perhaps his relatives had made plans—plans which did not account for Harry's desire to see his friends. This was a reasonable assumption to make. It explained away any delays on Harry's behalf, certainly.

Harry was a polite, endearing child, but he was a child nonetheless, and therefore prone to excitement and forgetfulness. Voldemort would simply have to be patient.

Belligerent spat more sparks into the air, swooping dangerously close to the line of bookshelves. Voldemort was about to snap at it when a knocking echoed through the relative silence of study. Both demon and dragon paused in surprise and turned to face the door.

With a crook of Voldemort's finger, the door swung open, revealing Evan Rosier.

The demon's expression—previously composed with the professional decorum expected of Voldemort's servants—melted into fear as Voldemort's face came into view.

"Speak," Voldemort said, lips stretched mirthlessly over sharp teeth. A smile that was gracious by all other standards, if not for the inauspicious tone that had accompanied it.

The both of them knew that no given answer would suffice for the transgression committed.

Rosier opened his mouth, worthless grovelling about to spill forth, and Voldemort decided that there was no need to hear any of it.

The demon's intake of air slid into an agonized shriek, and in short order there was a pile of smoking ash upon the expensive carpeting of the entrance. The flash of fire that had consumed the demon's physical form was brief enough that no damage had been done to the surrounding architecture. Voldemort had not lost his temper enough for that.

Belligerent flew over, landing in front of the ashes, snorting a thin stream of fire onto it as though to say 'hah, take _that!',_ and Voldemort could not quite disagree. He did, however, banish the ashes to one of Bellatrix's many pits.

Rosier would be retrieved later. Or not. Perhaps Bellatrix would notice and take pity on him.

Belligerent resumed its surveillance of the study, flying two more loops before it paused, visibly hesitating, next to Voldemort's shoulder.

"No," he said, glaring.

Belligerent's yellow eyes glared back, baleful, and then it flapped its tiny wings closer. And closer. And then two tiny claws dug into Voldemort's shoulder as the infernal creature perched itself like a parrot.

"Will you be here _all_ day, then?" he asked, exasperated.

A fiery spark was released into the air. With a sigh, Voldemort maneuvered to his armchair and summoned a book at random to read. Belligerent curled up like a cat, careful to avoid jabbing with its pointy tail as it lay down upon Voldemort's shoulder.

Voldemort turned to the first page of _'The Tales of Beedle the Bard',_ a book he had acquired only recently, and began to read aloud, intent on drowning out the clock that rested upon the table.

Belligerent snorted and purred along with the story, puffing hot air against Voldemort's neck.

They moved from one story to the next with ease, and Voldemort forced himself to pay no mind to the shifting hands of the clock. He would have company until Harry called.

* * *

The hour grew late, and no call occurred.

Voldemort grew increasingly inventive, crafting a number of imagined scenarios that were holding Harry's call at bay. 

Harry's attention could be distracted for any number of reasons, he reminded himself, and the day was not over just yet.

If the boy failed to summon him, then Voldemort would consider paying a visit tomorrow. To ensure Harry's safety and well-being, of course. It was unlike Harry to miss an agreed upon meeting.

Unfortunately, even his sensible, _reasonable_ decision did little to derail his pressing urge to leave, actual summons be damned.

Supper time came and went. The minute hand continued its rotation, relentless in its mockery of the distance between him and his little human child.

Voldemort fed raw sausages to Harry's dragon and watched as the feisty creature roasted the meat to a charred crisp before devouring it in large, gulping bites. Utterly brainless animal, Voldemort thought disparagingly. It likely did not even realize what day it was.

Eventually, the hour hand slid to an angle so late that even Voldemort had to concede a call was unlikely. Surely the boy would be sleeping soon. Harry would be exhausted after a long, happy day of celebrations, his promise to see his friend fled clear from his mind.

While this realization irked Voldemort, he would not begrudge the boy a proper birthday with his human family.

After all, Harry had been very tight-lipped about his plans for his birthday, focusing instead on his excitement regarding his 'birthday visit' from Bell and Mr. Tom. The intention, perhaps, had been the boy's clumsy way of sparing Voldemort the disappointment of hearing about the busy birthday plans that would occupy the entire day.

Situation rationalized, Voldemort once again resolved to see Harry tomorrow. In the meantime, he prepared a plan on how to approach Harry when they saw each other. He would first clarify, to soothe the child's nerves, that he was not upset. 

Following that, he would remind the boy of their promise to be honest with each other, again repeating that whatever reason had been the cause for the missed meeting (forgetfulness or otherwise), it was forgiven. 

Then, depending on Harry's answer, he would work out clear directives that would solve any similar problems should they arise in the future.

Harry was an intelligent boy. Repetition was only ever required to reassure Harry of genuine intentions. Otherwise, Harry tended to pick up on new concepts and ideas with impressive speed. Voldemort was confident that the regret of missing Harry's birthday would soon be replaced with a joyous, if belated, celebration.

Therefore, it came as a surprise when Harry's summons came through.

Voldemort barely spared a glance at the clock—the late hour was no longer important to him—as he snapped his fingers in the general direction of little Belligerent. The dragon was already halfway towards him, flapping its tiny wings with vigour.

Voldemort waited long enough for the creature to sink its claws into his shoulder before he began the process of extracting his magic from his core, pulling upon the reserves which would allow him to pass into the human realm.

It was partway through this undertaking that the emotional sensation of Harry's summons pierced the cloud of urgency that had momentarily preoccupied him.

At the very beginning of their friendship, Harry's calls had been tinged with hesitancy and anxiety. This minor obstacle had been rapidly dislodged, of course, and those negative emotions had been replaced with strong, positive feelings. More recently, Harry's calls were only ever warm and cheerful, confirming that Voldemort had succeeded in winning over the boy's trust and affections.

The current emotions that Voldemort could feel through the faint bond of Harry's summons—a mixture of exhaustion and despair and fondness—were rather alarming.

In the split second it had taken for Voldemort to think through all these things, his magic had charged enough for him to travel. Voldemort departed with haste, the bulk of his form de-materializing as he initiated the strenuous activity of passing through the realms.

There was nothing to be done until he arrived by Harry's side. Once he laid eyes on the boy, he told himself, all would be well. He was certain of this.

So certain, in fact, that when his clawed feet touched upon the spotless hardwood floor of the dark, silent hallway in Number 4, Privet Drive, his immediate impression was that he must have landed in the wrong place.

Belligerent launched into the air, flapping in aggravating circles around Voldemort's head. Voldemort swatted the thing aside, the better to concentrate on his surroundings.

This was not the house of before—the stuffy living room filled with cat hair and knitting gear. This was a different place altogether, though Voldemort could discern that this was the correct area. Even in the seventh circle, Voldemort was constantly aware, however distantly, of Harry's presence on Earth. If Harry's location had changed, he would have noticed.

Voldemort shut his eyes, filtering out the visual clutter in order to sharpen his focus.

All at once, lifeforms in the area fell under the radius of his perception, their souls represented by tiny pinpricks of light that were scattered across the vast emptiness of Earth. The sudden rush of stimulation was distracting—it took some time for him to concentrate on his goal: finding Harry.

Spots of light were dotted all over the neighbourhood, some of the spots brighter than others. Voldemort narrowed his attention to the house, searching further.

The floor above him housed three mid-sized sparks. There were also a few minuscule ones that represented the insects and vermin that lurked in any typical household.

This would have been sufficient reason for him to head up the stairs were it not for the dazzling light directly to his right. A beautiful, brilliant glow that Voldemort could not mistake for anyone else.

Belligerent was already perched on the shiny metal knob, spitting mild flames at the doorway, shrieking softly, _mournfully._

A strange numbness stole over Lord Voldemort. His eyes were open. They had been open from the moment that too-bright spark had registered in his mind, overpowering every other conscious thought he'd had.

"You'll burn the house down," he scolded the dragon, but his voice was flatter than usual, the sound of it distant from his own ears.

There came a shuffling from the other side of the door. Voldemort banished the entire wooden contraption without a second thought, revealing—revealing—

It took long, long moments for the sight to properly register. This image, simultaneously an agonizing memory and a horrific _reality,_ was etching itself, one painful stitch at a time, into Voldemort's mind.

And wasn't it only right that it did so? Was it not right that Voldemort suffer every fractional amount of torture that this terrible realization thrust upon him?

The product of his failures was looking up at him with fearful green eyes. Voldemort could only muster a weak intake of breath to fill the wretched hollow in his chest.

It was fair that Harry lose trust in him now, for he had somehow allowed this to happen. He had failed to protect the boy whose friendship he had promised to cherish.

For this sight before his eyes was neither an accident nor a one-time occurrence—it was obvious from a single glance that this space had been _lived in,_ not utilized as a temporary space for punishments or otherwise, and _even then,_ even _then—_

Even as a punishment, Voldemort could not stand to think of Harry alone in this dark space, devoid of companionship and sunlight.

"I'm sorry, Harry." Though the words were not enough, he had to say them. Voldemort was struck with the urge to hoist the boy up into his arms and hold him close, but he no longer felt such a gesture would be welcome.

Harry's eyes blurred behind his shiny glass lenses. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to." Those eyes remained wide, the lower lip of the mouth trembling, those thin little limbs wrapped tightly over the chest in a gesture of self-preservation. A gesture of distrust for the man standing in front of him.

Voldemort loathed, deeply and truly, whoever had ingrained these terrible expectations of poor treatment into this darling child. Yet he loathed himself more for invoking such a response at all—that Harry felt any fear in his presence was a mark of shame.

Still, he would make Harry promise to never apologize again, he would ensure that Harry _never_ felt the need to apologize ever again. In Voldemort's eyes, Harry would never be capable of doing wrong, and this fact needed to be imparted with all the urgency such a task required.

Voldemort slid to his knees, shifting his appearance as he went along, determined to make this conversation as comfortable as possible for the boy.

Harry shrunk back. Voldemort suppressed a wince, knowing that such a display of emotion on his part would not aid him in calming Harry down, and held out his hands, palms up, in a gesture of supplication.

"Are you alright?" Voldemort asked, careful to modulate his tone to fit the stillness of the house and the gravity of the situation at hand.

Harry seemed bewildered by the question. His nose was pink and twitching, like he was prepared to cry—an outcome Voldemort dearly wished to avoid.

"I am not upset," Voldemort continued. This statement often helped to reassure Harry that their friendship was not in danger of breaking.

Harry sucked his lip into his mouth, eyes still glossy. "I'm sorry," Harry repeated in a whisper. He made no move to reach for Voldemort's hands, a hurtful detail Voldemort had to set aside for the time being, no matter how much it saddened him to do so.

"You have no reason to apologize. I am not sure why you feel the need to apologize, Harry, but I can assure you it is not necessary."

Harry's expression implied a great deal of doubt, which Voldemort did not like to see.

"Do you believe me?" Voldemort asked softly, seeking to determine the extent of the damage his negligence had caused.

There was a stretch of silence while Harry stared at him. The pause felt infinite in that each passing second threatened to tear apart his insides, wreaking havoc and madness in the confines of his chest.

Had he not, until this moment, understood how dear this boy was to him? Did Harry know the power he held with the answer to this question? A negative reaction could render their relationship irreparable.

If Harry could no longer trust him, then there was little recourse for him to re-secure the boy's friendship.

All remaining options would require brute force, preferably beginning with removing Harry from this appalling place. Regardless if Harry wished to leave here or not, Harry would be safer with him. Regardless if Harry hated him for it, he would keep Harry safe.

Harry breathed out, a soft puff of hot air spilling out into the space between them. "You're not mad?"

That young voice was tinged with _hope,_ the sound of it divine to Voldemort's ears.

A sudden wave of emotion fell upon him, the weight of it so staggering that he discarded his previous hesitation and reached for his precious child, burying his fingers into the soft gossamer of Harry's hair.

"Never."

Harry made a new sound, one not unlike a sob, and rushed forward, tossing both arms around Voldemort's neck and shoulders, squeezing with all the might of a tiny seven-year-old boy.

The heavy weight from before lifted abruptly from Voldemort's chest and shoulders. The two of them swayed dangerously in place, Voldemort cradling Harry upright while he comforted the boy as best he could.

(Or were they comforting each other?)

It was as though the world itself had tilted, Voldemort thought vaguely. That, or it was simply the swirl of intensity bursting inside of him, tumbling him into euphoria mingled with relief.

Harry squirmed, burrowing ever closer, and Voldemort obliged, tightening his embrace until Harry ceased movement, sniffling mutely into his shoulder.

When the both of them had calmed, Voldemort drew back. He left both hands attached to Harry's forearms, reluctant to disengage completely. Harry blinked sluggishly in response to the withdrawal, his eyes a bit puffy around the edges from crying, and Voldemort was suddenly reminded of a great many things at once.

"Happy birthday, Harry," he said, simply and plainly, raising his hand to Harry's forehead and sweeping a gentle touch across, tucking the wild bangs back.

Harry smiled, cheeks dimpling the slightest amount. Voldemort felt that some of his own relief was reflected in that smile, and that thought warmed him.

"Thank you," Harry said, ever the proper, polite little boy that he had been from the moment they had met. It was such good manners that had endeared Harry to him to begin with.

Voldemort smiled in return, petting the boy's hair a few times. Then, once he felt Harry was reasonably assured that nothing was about to go terribly wrong, he cast a glance to the space behind Harry—to the cupboard under the stairs.

Harry did not miss the direction of Voldemort's gaze. His back stiffened, the lovely ease of his shoulders vanishing, replaced by tension and stress.

"Shhh. You are safe." Voldemort frowned, then wiped the frown from his face lest Harry catch sight of it and misinterpret it. He wished to examine the space to deduce the severity of Harry's suffering, but he would not do so if it upset Harry further.

Harry hiccuped once, and that was enough to trigger inspiration; Voldemort settled his free hand on the child's waist and reeled him in. Harry went willingly, hiccuping a second time as he stumbled into the embrace.

It was then that Belligerent finally made itself useful, fluttering near and—from what Voldemort could discern—licking Harry's face.

Harry giggled, a mild burble of watery laughter that spilled into the inky darkness of the hushed hallway. Voldemort rubbed a hand on Harry's back and returned his attention to the cupboard, trusting that Belligerent would keep Harry's attention occupied.

The small space was extremely tidy, though Voldemort attributed that to Harry's virtues rather than his relatives'. However, upon further deliberation, Voldemort realized that this cleanliness could also be attributed to the fact that there were, all told, very few items in this cupboard to begin with.

The bedding was clean, but the material was visibly worn and frayed around the edges. The shelf built into the left side housed neat piles of clothing and a small collection of trinkets. Mismatched pieces of toys that must have come from other places; multiple rocks of interesting shapes, sizes and colours; a singular piece of bright pink chalk in pristine condition.

Voldemort was transfixed. Something about Harry's shelf of baubles compelled him to pause his assessment of the living space. It took Harry's restless shifting in his grasp to pull him back to reality.

Harry was squirming backwards, tugging away. The unexpected motion sent a pang of concern through Voldemort, but then Harry's hand came up to smother a huge yawn, and the reason for the maneuver became clear.

"It is late," Voldemort remarked. Feelings of disappointment tickled at his throat as he spoke. Here he was, keeping the boy awake to satisfy his own curiosities—he ought to know better.

Harry's face shuttered, closing off. "Are you leaving?"

Voldemort's previous pang of concern morphed into a stab of regret for his rash comment. "No," he said, desperate to reassure. "I will not leave unless you ask it of me."

"But I need to sleep," Harry said dully, like he was _resigned,_ and oh, how could Harry think this of him? How could Harry believe that Voldemort would abandon him to this horrible place?

Voldemort snatched Harry up by the waist and deposited the boy onto his shoulder. "You will not be staying here any longer." With a faint crack of magic, all of Harry's belongings were gathered into a clear, floating sphere.

Harry began to protest, weak pleas to be put down. Voldemort forced himself to stop, to pause and listen to Harry's requests and give them the appropriate amount of attention. He would not ignore Harry, even as Harry argued in favour of his own endangerment.

"Do you like it here?" Voldemort asked, knowing the answer could not possibly be yes.

Harry did not respond immediately, and so Voldemort and Belligerent waited patiently for the answer. Belligerent circled the floating sphere of Harry's belongings, then settled atop it, curling into a ball and purring smugly with contentedness.

"I live here," Harry said. "You—you're going to take me away?"

"If you would like me to, then I will."

"And will I—will I ever have to come back?"

The meaning of 'have to' was unbearably transparent. Voldemort faltered, struggling to separate the implication—that he would _ever_ willingly return Harry here—from Harry's unfounded fears. Fears that must have been ground into Harry's psyche through mistreatment and abuse.

What Voldemort said here would be remembered. How he responded to Harry's question would set the way going forward. This promise would forever be held above all others, would be a true oath between them. His words would be chosen with care, for care was what Harry deserved—Harry deserved every aspect of that word.

Voldemort was aware he was not, and would never be, the ideal parental figure for this child. Harry was a creature of good, the purest and brightest of souls, and such a being could not last forever in the care of a demon such as he. But for the time being, for this moment, Harry would be his own, and this was the message he needed to convey to the child in his arms.

"I swear you will never need return here so long as I am able to protect you," Voldemort said. The air teemed with magic, fizzling like static as the significance of his vow took hold. "I will not abandon you so long as you need me. I will look after you and give you the best home I can offer."

Harry trembled violently, fresh tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, but surprisingly, no sobs escaped.

Harry was holding his breath, Voldemort realized. Harry was afraid to breathe, to so much as move a millimeter lest the beautiful dream of Voldemort's promise abruptly end in the bitter wakefulness of a cruel reality.

"Do you believe me?" Voldemort asked, as softly as the first time, voice straining.

As the ruler of Hell's seventh circle, Voldemort had no reason to experience fear. He had eradicated as much of that emotion from himself as was possible.

But here in his arms was the only living human who knew his true name. He cared what Harry thought of him. He was genuinely fearful of a negative response. Such an answer on Harry's part would have a profound impact on him, and not only because it would represent his personal failure to keep the boy safe.

Harry straightened, his green eyes meeting Voldemort's red ones. Harry's mouth was set into a firm sort of line, his brows tugging together in determination.

His glorious, marvelous, _brave_ little boy.

A sublime, unfamiliar swell of emotion swept over Voldemort like a tidal wave, and he knew what Harry's answer would be before his little human so much as parted his lips to speak.

"I do," Harry said, and each word was given a ridiculous amount of emphasis as he continued, "I believe you, and I want you to take me away."

Belligerent let out a sharp whistle of triumph, and Voldemort was tempted, fleetingly, to tell the tiny dragon to burn this entire house down before they left it. Regrettably, he had more critical duties to handle at the moment. The most prominent of those duties was currently suppressing another large yawn.

"Sleep," Voldemort whispered, tucking the boy's head back down onto his shoulder, releasing a soft wisp of magic that would ensure the child's sweet dreams. "Sleep, dear one, and I will keep you safe."

Harry slept, and his dreams were the sweetest he had ever dreamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEE HAW WE DID IT! HARRY IS A FREE BOY! 
> 
> next up we have some actual adventures in hell!! please subscribe and bookmark to the series for more, and consider joining my discord server, which is linked below!

**Author's Note:**

> find me & my writing updates on tumblr [here](https://duplicitywrites.tumblr.com)!
> 
> feel free to join my personal discord server for my writing (and where i livewrote this story) [here](https://discord.gg/BJRP4A5)!


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